


Pas de deux

by jomipay



Series: A touch of leather, a collection of human BDSM au's [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, BDSM, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light Dom/sub, M/M, Porn With Plot, Smut, dance au, look it's a reverse human dance au, only he's a fallen dancer, posh ballet company in London setting, reverse au sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21753538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomipay/pseuds/jomipay
Summary: The best way I can describe this is a sort of reverse human dance au. With lots of smut.Aziraphale was attracted to him from that first encounter. The way his cheeks had blushed, the way the blush had crept down his neck. It was completely inappropriate to desire a student in this way, but Aziraphale found he could not stop. It would be alright; nothing would ever come of it. It was not as if a man as beautiful as Crowley would be interested in Aziraphale’s has-been body; the soft roundness of his stomach, the padding of fat over the muscles of his thighs. But oh, how we wanted. Crowley always stayed after to chat, asked Aziraphale questions about himself, seemed to be genuinely interested in him. It was all just fuel for the growing fire.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A touch of leather, a collection of human BDSM au's [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589446
Comments: 112
Kudos: 721
Collections: Disabled Good Omens, Good Omens Human AUs, Ineffable Humans AU, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Pas de deux

**Author's Note:**

> This was a joy to write, I hope you find joy in reading.

_Present day…_

Aziraphale tries to stop the shiver running up his spine when his eyes settle on the lithe form-- the lean muscles, the elegant lines of the tendons, the jut of the hipbones—but he can’t, and though it is raining and cold outside, the shiver making its way into his bones has nothing to do with the dreary weather. He’s watching Crowley. He finds he can only watch Crowley and he berates himself, knowing he needs to be more subtle. He tears his eyes away, gives the other dancers quick appraisals. He wills his legs to carry him around the room, so that he may make minor corrections to form, offer advice, pretend he’s fully focused on the task at hand. He’s in the back of the room now, staring at Crowley between arms raised high and fingers reaching skyward. His crimson hair is half pulled back, falling in soft gentle waves today and Aziraphale wants to _touch_. He hungers like some predacious being that stalks in the night, never fully satisfied no matter how successful the hunt. _(Crowley moans as Aziraphale buries his hand in his tangled hair, long ago freed from its tie, sinking his fingers in to the roots and tugging sharply. Crowley gasps and moans low in his throat, grinding his hips into the mattress. The sounds and the sight travel straight to Aziraphale’s hard cock. He maneuvers Crowley into a kneeling position. “Good boy.” Crowley whimpers, gazing up at him with wide eyes. “Yes, you’ve been so good for me,” Aziraphale punctuates his statement with a slow, harsh pull on the silken hair wrapped up in his fingers. Crowley keens, letting out a series of little whimpers, breathing heavy and shallow. Aziraphale sits on the bed in front of him, keeping hold of his hair firmly. He traces the elegant line of Crowley’s jaw with a single finger before cupping his chin. “What is it dear?” He asks, amused at the state Crowley’s in already. Crowley darts his tongue out to wet his lips, stares deep into Aziraphale’s eyes. “T-Tell me, tell me again.” Crowley pleads, voice sounding every bit as wrecked as Aziraphale thinks he is. Aziraphale stands, tosses Crowley roughly forward on the bed, positioning him so he’s resting on his elbows and forearms with his arse in the air. Aziraphale goes to the closet, pulling out an implement that has quickly become one of Crowley’s favorites. Aziraphale strokes the honey-tan skin of Crowley’s displayed arse with the leather paddle, lips quirking into a smile at the hitch in Crowley’s breath. He gives him a smack with the paddle, not too hard, but enough to sting--perfect to start with. “Your skin flushes so beautifully dear, good boy.” Crowley moans. Aziraphale kneads the pink skin of his arse for a moment and then raises the leather paddle, smacking him again, a bit harder. “So well behaved for me, so perfect, my beautiful boy.” Crowley whimpers and writhes under him.)_

Aziraphale circles back around to the front of the room, focusing on the steps it takes to get there, trying to distract himself from what he wants, from the man in front of him. He wills the blood that had rushed toward his cock during his reverie back into his circulation. He’s only partially successful. Crowley’s jumper slips down his shoulder as he moves into an arabesque, revealing a purple mark. Some primal thing deep within Aziraphale soars at the sight of it. _Mine,_ it growls into his core. He’d thought it might be easier now. Easier to be around Crowley now that he didn’t have to imagine, now that he’d satisfied his curiosity, satisfied his desire to touch, satisfied his deepest, darkest urges. It had only fanned the flame. He was never satisfied. He always wanted _more_. He can’t wait for this to be over, it’s the last class of the day, after this he can go home, wait a few hours for Crowley to join him. He can spend that time thinking of all the different ways he can wring pleasure from Crowley tonight, all the different things he can do to soothe him, to give him what he likes best.

Crowley makes eye contact with him, _winks_ at him, the cheeky brat. The next move in the sequence is another arabesque, on the opposite side. Aziraphale comes to stand behind him, under the guise of adjusting his arm, making him bend it ever so slightly at the elbow. Crowley elongates his fingers, giving his arm the illusion of being longer than it already is. Aziraphale turns his head, just a smidge, whispers low, so low only Crowley will be able to hear, “Good boy.” Aziraphale smirks to himself at the hitch in Crowley’s breath. He watches him fumble the steps leading into the next leap. He tuts at him, scowling outwardly while being inordinately smug internally. Serves him right, the cheeky brat.

______________________________

Crowley dresses into his street clothes quickly, trading his loose jumper for a fitted V- neck and a white leather jacket. He slips his jeans on over his leggings wanting the extra layer of protection against the cold. One of the guys points out the mark on his collarbone, “Good night, eh?”

“Hardly,” Crowley waves him off. “Curling iron.” He lies, gesturing to his coiffed hair.

This is the routine Crowley has gotten used to. He goes out with the other dancers, picks at some food, has a drink, does the required socializing. He doesn’t want to seem too eager, doesn’t want to seem like there’s some place else he’d rather, quite desperately, be without being able to explain. He sits on a wooden barstool, nurses his pint of beer or glass of wine, shivering with both the cold and the anticipation of being made warm later. And the way Aziraphale warms him, _dear God._ _(“Angel, pleeeaaase!” Crowley cries, tears leaving wet streaks down his cheeks. Crowley is kneeling on the bed with his naked back pressed to Aziraphale’s still-clothed front. He can feel the hot brand of Aziraphale’s thick cock through his trousers and against his arse. Aziraphale is stroking him, long languid strokes, from his sensitive dripping head to the cock ring seated at his base. It feels like Aziraphale’s been at this for impossibly long. He’s in agony, oversensitive and desperate for release. He clenches around the plug in his arse. “Shhhh, shhh, not quite yet, dear.” Aziraphale shushes him, strokes his hair, soothing. “You’ve been so good, so strong for me, you can wait a bit longer, can’t you?” Crowley sobs and nods his head. There’s one little word he can use, one little word and it stops. Crowley won’t use it, because while he’s in agony, he’s also in heaven, safe in the strong arms of his angel. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so warm. His skin is flushed all over and there’s sweat dripping from his hair; it mingles on his skin with the tears of his desperation. Aziraphale is sucking marks into his neck, he thinks vaguely that he must taste salty. His mind is bird’s nest of broken thoughts and half things—leaves and twigs and haze and fog. He can only muddle through the salty waves in his head. So much fog, so much haze to get through. It’s rather pleasant, and it goes nicely with the salt. Perhaps he’s always been this way, always been made of salt and no one had ever told him. How fortunate for him then, that salt is one of his angel’s favorite tastes. Aziraphale begins stroking him faster and Crowley can hear the rustle of fabric behind him as Aziraphale takes out his cock. Crowley’s heart thrums with anticipation. The haze in his mind crackles with static charge, the kind that sits in the air, permeates it before a storm. He slides the plug out of Crowley, making him whimper at the feeling of being empty. He hardly has time to mourn the loss before three of Aziraphale’s broad fingers take its place. Crowley moans, savoring the feeling of his lover’s skin and flesh within him. It isn’t long before the fingers are withdrawn and replaced with the blunt head of Aziraphale’s fat cock. Heat courses through Crowley, the blood in his veins molten, warming him from his core. Crowley release an open-mouthed gasp as Aziraphale buries himself fully within his body, pumping liquid heat into his body with every movement of his hips. Crowley can feel the sweat pooling in the creases of his joints, his heart pulsing the heat through his body where it coils low in his belly. Aziraphale’s breath grows more and more laborious and he says, “Now, my dear, you may come, come for me, sweet darling.” He takes Crowley’s aching prick in hand and strokes hard and fast. Crowley’s vision whites out when he comes, the coil in his belly springing and returning the gathered heat to his circulation as waves of pleasure. Crowley collapses forward on the bed, taking several minutes to come back to himself, twitching with aftershocks. Aziraphale strokes his hair, runs a cool cloth over him. Crowley’s never come so hard before. He’s never been so warm._

He leaves the pub as soon as it’s polite.

______________________________

Aziraphale’s fooling himself if he thinks he was anything but in over his head from that first day. Aziraphale was old, irrelevant, _out of touch_ , and no one at the company ever let him feel like he was anything but. He’d let Beez drag him out of his self-imposed exile, and he let himself be dragged because he didn’t know what else to do. Being around dancers was hard. Watching their nimble forms, their powerful muscles propelling them to impossible heights, landing with a grace he had once been known for, but could no longer manage himself—it was too bloody hard. But staying away had been harder. Yes, when Beez and Dagon called, he’d come running. He knew he was a sadist, but now he knows he’s a bit of a masochist, too. He’d been bitter. His mood is only worsened by the presence of Gabriel and Michael, sneering at him openly whenever they pass him in the halls. Gabriel and Michael effectively run the company, but Beez and Dagon do most of the work, and they certainly care about the dancers a great deal more.

_A look back_ …

Beez and Dagon had gotten overwhelmed trying to choreograph and give students proper attention between just the two of them and Gabriel had given them permission to hire whoever they wanted to help ease the load. Aziraphale had almost walked right out of the building when he’d caught a glimpse of Gabriel through a classroom window. Beez grabbed the sleeve of his coat, holding him in place.

“What on Earth do you think you’re playing at?” Aziraphale snapped.

Aziraphale recalls Beez’s dark eyes, wide and pleading. “Just hear me out,” she pleaded.

Aziraphale had ripped his coat sleeve out of her grip and glared at her.

“Fine. But make your point quickly.”

“You’re a better men’s teacher than I could ever be, you were a better dancer than I ever was. They need you.” Her eyes and tone had been desperate.

Aziraphale had honed-in on one word. “Was,” he said, voice full of the vitriol he tried to pretend wasn’t for himself, “I _was_ a good dancer. I’d be a shit teacher.”

Beez had dragged him over to the two-way mirror and jabbed a finger at Gabriel.

“He won’t listen to me, because he’s right that he knows more about teaching men than I do, but they’re _suffering_. He can’t push you around that way, he can’t claim to know more, _and someone needs to protect them.”_

She’d paused then, looking at him imploringly before appealing to him in a much lower, much kinder voice. “Don’t you wish someone had been there to protect you?”

In the end, that had done it. Aziraphale _had_ wished someone had been there for him. Aside from that Beez had been right. Gabriel had a complete monopoly on training the men of the company and he was grossly and dangerously overworking them. Despite their checkered past together and their mutual distaste for each other, Aziraphale proved to be a gifted and effective teacher, and no one was more surprised than he. The men of the company would come from Aziraphale’s classes feeling stronger, more refreshed. Aziraphale liked to focus on form and low impact work. Dancers would come from his classes sore, but they wouldn’t come out of them feeling hurt or worn ragged, and their performances were all the better for it. Of course, Gabriel took this as a sign that he could push them even harder, now that he had someone that could work the kinks out for him.

There were whisperings, quiet murmurs amongst the students about the apparent bad blood between himself and Gabriel. Murmurs about how his own dancing career had ended followed him up and down the halls. It didn’t bother him. They could gossip all they like; Gabriel could tell them what he liked.

That was the first time he’d encountered Crowley. Aziraphale had been coming around a corner, paused before rounding the turn when he heard the voices.

“I heard he had a nervous breakdown, couldn’t take it anymore and walked right out of a rehearsal.” One lowered voice purported.

Another, different voice responded. “I heard he was hurting himself on purpose, company had to kick him for his own good.”

Aziraphale winced. He’d known there would be stories, inaccuracies, but that hurt in a special kind of way. The difference between a knife with a straight, sharp edge the went in cleanly and one with a serrated edge whose jagged teeth each caught on the flesh in turn.

“It’s not nice to talk about people that way.” A third, louder voice hissed. “And besides, that’s not what happened.”

“What do you know about nice?” The second of the voices demanded.

“Alright, what happened then?” The first wanted to know.

“He got hurt.” Aziraphale backed away from the corner, taken aback by whatever it was he was hearing in the man’s voice. _Sorrow? Pity?_ “Tore a bunch of ligaments in his ankle, ‘s why he’s got that limp sometimes.”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to feel, confronted with it like that. He should have been relieved that there someone here that knew, but it set his head buzzing. He felt flayed open, vulnerable. And maybe that was the thing. The truth of the matter was just that—he was vulnerable, had been vulnerable. A young dancer eager to please his teachers, eager to rise to the demands of ‘ _more, more, more,’_ too young to know when he was being overworked, too young to understand that his body had a breaking point. Too stupid to understand how fragile, how _vulnerable_ his body could be.

He rounded the corner then. Hoping to walk through the group and to his office to shut himself and his existential dread away for a moment to breathe. His eyes met a with two pools of liquid gold set in a face framed by flowing crimson waves. His lips parted slightly, and he managed to hold in a gasp. There, confronted with those eyes that he was spending far too long staring into, he could see the emotion he couldn’t place in the man’s voice. _Grief._

______________________________

Crowley lingered after class the day after Aziraphale started. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but it was there in his throat, threatening to drown him if he didn’t get it out. Aziraphale fixed him with a curious look, one pale blonde eyebrow arched in expectation.

“Something you needed?” Crowley knew he needed to say something, needed to make conversation like a normal person instead of standing there like a loon.

“You were my favorite dancer.” He blurted out. He kicked himself mentally. All the words had come out in a rush and now he was helpless to stop them from coming.

“I saw you in _Don Quixote_ , you were Basilio,” of course the man knew who he was in _Don Quixote_ , why had he said that? “I had just started dancing. You could jump so _high_ and you looked so strong, lifting Kitri like she weighed nothing and, Jesus, fuck sorry, I just really-- you were my favorite dancer and I was sad when you stopped performing.”

Crowley seriously considered hurtling himself out of the nearest window and into the traffic below. Surely Aziraphale thought he was mental. Crowley felt his face redden and ran a hand over the back of his neck and studied the wooden floor intently.

Aziraphale’s voice roused him, it sounded amused. “I don’t think Jesus had anything to do with it.”

Crowley’s head snapped back up. Aziraphale was smiling. “And Kitri didn’t really weigh anything, that girl was nothing but skin and bones.”

Aziraphale held his gaze. “I was really your favorite?”

Crowley couldn’t do anything but nod, cheeks still aflame.

“Well, that’s very kind of you to say.” He paused, cast his eyes down and back up again. They were so blue, the kind of pale grey-blue Crowley liked seeing in the sky before a storm rolled in.

“I’ve only been able to observe you for a few days, but you know, I think you might be better than I ever was, has anyone told you?” The man was bloody smirking at him, and Crowley could feel the flush spread down his neck and to his chest.

People had told him he was good; told him he was talented. But none of that meant anything compared to this. _Aziraphale Fell_ , standing in front of him telling him he thought Crowley might be better than _him?_ Crowley hoped the involuntary swallowing he was doing wasn’t obvious.

______________________________

Aziraphale was attracted to him from that first encounter. The way his cheeks had blushed, the way the blush had crept down his neck. It was completely inappropriate to desire a student in this way, but Aziraphale found he could not stop. It would be alright; nothing would ever come of it. It was not as if a man as beautiful as Crowley would be interested in Aziraphale’s has-been body; the soft roundness of his stomach, the padding of fat over the muscles of his thighs. But _oh,_ how we _wanted_. Crowley always stayed after to chat, asked Aziraphale questions about himself, seemed to be genuinely interested in him. It was all just fuel for the growing fire.

Crowley was an immensely talented dancer. He was careful, precise, fluid in his movements. He had long lines and sharp features and his hair made him look positively ethereal. Aziraphale had quickly learned that he could elicit that gorgeous blush by giving praise. He drank every bit of it up and the flush rose to his cheeks every time, without fail. Gabriel had never been one to hand out praise, the poor dear clearly thrived on it and he hadn’t been getting any of it. Aziraphale praised the other dancers as well. But none of them flushed the way Crowley did. He didn’t think about anyone else’s red cheeks and pink necks alone at night in his bed. _He shuts his eyes, tries to will the thoughts away. He finds he’s quite incapable of such a feat. He remembers Crowley going through a grand adage, remembers cooing to him “Beautiful, my dear, perfect!” He pictures the red cheeks, the dilated eyes, the slight part of those luscious, perfect lips. He’s helpless to stop himself. He takes his hardening cock in hand and strokes himself quickly, harshly, picturing his hand buried in that shock of red hair. His hair would be soft, it would feel perfect, and he’d tell him, watch him drink it in. Would Crowley like having his hair pulled? Would he whimper and blush when Aziraphale told him how gorgeous he looked on his knees? He imagines pulling on his hair, imagines the whimper and fucks his fist faster until he spills over his hand._

Crowley had taken to eating with Aziraphale in his office at lunch. He stayed after class for longer and longer chats. Aziraphale thought he was deluding himself into thinking that Crowley might actually be flirting with him. Then everything changed. Crowley asked him at the end of lunch one day, a Wednesday, if he wouldn’t mind staying late, or meeting him in the studio later. Gabriel had given them new choreography to learn for the next day and Crowley was having trouble with some of it, and if wanted to know if Aziraphale would please help him with it? It was a bit of an endurance section, lots of balancing poses and jumps from a standstill, things Aziraphale was especially good at helping with. Aziraphale agreed to meet him later that night, at 7. When he walked into the studio, Crowley was sitting in the center of the room, putting his shoes on, cream jumper at least a size too big slipping down one shoulder. The room was dark, but ample light was flowing in from the wall of windows overlooking the street. The moonlight streamed in, lighting up the grains and imperfections in the smooth wooden flooring. Crowley's hair was half up in a messy bun, escaped pieces framing his face. The moonlight danced off of it. Aziraphale didn’t turn the lights on. This activity would undoubtedly require him to put his hands on Crowley, and the less of his desire the other man could see, the better. Better to hide in the dark.

If Crowley had qualms about the dim lighting, he didn’t voice them.

“Thank you, for helping me,” he looked sheepishly at Aziraphale’s shoes.

“Not a problem, dear, I understand how Gabriel can get.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, if you don’t do it right the first time, he just makes you do it over and over. I can handle pain, but I don’t fancy dancing the rest of the week with my feet covered in blisters.”

Aziraphale’s mind was fixated on one part of what Crowley had said. _“I can handle pain.”_ His mind went instantly to that place, to his closet where he kept all of the implements, all of the toys, that made mixing pleasure and pain together a reality. Aziraphale found himself wondering what Crowley would like, maybe the flogger, the black one with the thick woven handle and the heavy leather tresses. He was willing to bet he’d enjoy being tied, too. Crowley always looked so anxious, so nervous, trying to conduct himself just so, trying to perform everything just right—he’d like giving up control. What a fortunate thing, since Aziraphale liked being in control. So much of his life had felt like it had been ripped out of his fingers, like it had spiraled away from him and there was nothing he could do to change its course. He enjoyed bringing his partners pleasure, loved being trusted that way. His partners trusted that he wouldn’t push them too far, trusted him to stop when they wanted, trusted him to remember what they liked, to bring them to ecstasy in his care. It’d been a while since he’d had a partner. Even longer since he’d had one he was so attracted to, let alone one he wanted emotionally. It hit him then, how completely he wanted Crowley, how much of him he craved.

The sound of Crowley’s voice, tinted with curiosity, tore him away from his thoughts. “Are you okay?”

Aziraphale straightened, and did his best not to flush, greatly aided by the dim lighting of the room.

“Yes, perfectly.” He paused, straightened his shirt, rolled up the sleeves of his dark green shirt, watched the way Crowley’s eyes followed each new inch of pale skin. He wasn’t imagining that, was he? He caught Crowley staring and Crowley jerked his head away quickly, an admission of guilt. A thrill ran down his body.

He cleared his throat. “Now, why don’t you show me from the beginning, the whole thing as best you can.”

Crowley only needed help with a few sections, a few transitions where he hadn’t figured out how to shift his weight to stay balanced. Aziraphale had him attempt one such transition for him a few times, a leap into an arabesque that has Crowley lean so far forward, he could touch the floor with his fingers. Crowley’s momentum from the jump kept tilting him too far forward and he couldn't hold his balance.

Aziraphale watched and pondered.

“Stop yourself right when you land, don’t worry about it being fluid right now. It’s really two motions, the landing and the lean forward, we can do them separately for now.”

Crowley did what he asked, he was a beautiful jumper, lithe and powerful. Crowley winced as he landed, but managed to stick it perfectly.

“Hmm, hard on the hips, isn’t it?” Crowley winced again in conformation. Aziraphale continued, “Hard to take all that momentum and stop it perfectly on a dime. Tell me my dear, is your hip bothering you?”

Crowley hesitated for a moment before worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and nodding.

Aziraphale waited for him to elaborate.

“It’s been a bit sore, hurts for stuff like this, the hard landings and when I first lift my leg.”

“We’ll have to look at that more in depth, for now, I might be able to help you avoid any unpleasantness and get through tomorrow with Gabriel.”

Crowley’s face looked hopeful. Aziraphale remembered it well, all the nagging aches and pains. The body had a way of protesting when it was overworked.

“Like I said, we’ll treat it as two separate movements that we’re combining. I’m going to soften your landing a bit by sort of catching you, if that’s alright?”

Crowley nodded.

“I’m going to let you play with the lean, see what feels comfortable, I’ll stand in front of you and watch your form. Lean past the balance point, really find out where that is, you can put your hands on me to steady yourself.”

Crowley breathed deeply.

“Okay, let’s try it.”

It worked well. Aziraphale put his hands around Crowley’s hips before he landed, dampening the force of it. He tried not to pay attention to how perfect and sinful the hip bones felt under his hands. His hands were under the soft fabric of the jumper and he could feel the heat of Crowley's skin through his thin leggings. He could feel the muscles flexing there as they worked, knew that was where he was sore, thought it would probably feel good to have someone work and knead their fingers there. Aziraphale walked in front of him, Crowley leaned too enthusiastically and had to catch himself on Aziraphale’s thighs.

“Shit, sorry.”

Aziraphale tensed under his hands. “That’s alright, dear. Leg higher, relax your back, shoulders up.”

Crowley made each correction in turn and pushed off Aziraphale’s thighs, teetering at the balance point.

“Excellent! Get comfortable there, feel that out.” Crowley teetered forward and backward, doing as he was asked.

They did it several more times until Crowley could do it fluidly, and then once without Aziraphale at all. He gritted his teeth through the landing but held the pose as he was supposed to.

Aziraphale beamed at him.

“Simply beautiful, well done.”

Crowley straightened a cocked a smile back. Lord, he looked beautiful smiling. More pieces of Crowley's half bun had come undone, and his jumper was slipped off one shoulder, the way it almost always was, revealing the strap of the vest underneath. Aziraphale’s skin had a sheen of sweat on it, matching the sheen on Crowley’s skin. Not that he was doing nearly as much physical work as Crowley, no. He was just getting himself worked up mentally, letting his eyes linger on the divets Crowley’s collarbones made, imagining what the skin there would taste like, studying the curve of his firm arse.

Crowley went through the rest of the sequence, having Aziraphale make tweaks here and there, which he was happy to do. The better this looked now, the happier Gabriel would be tomorrow, and the less Crowley would suffer. Crowley came to an easier hold in the sequence, which he seemed to be having an odd amount of trouble with.

Aziraphale walked around to survey at a different angle. “Align your hips.”

Crowley did so but let his leg turn out. “No, no keep your leg the way it was, honestly after everything else how are you having trouble with this?” Aziraphale let his exasperation come through, teasing. Crowley smirked at him and turned his leg back in, but let his hips go wonky again.

“Honestly, Crowley!”

“Seem to be a bit confused here, think I might need some help.” Crowley’s voice sounded raw in a way that stoked Aziraphale’s core, stoked the flames in his belly.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Just align your hips.” Aziraphale found his voice did not sound nearly as steady as he would have liked. He could see the bob of Crowley’s throat as he swallowed.

“Think you’re going to have to come and show me.”

Aziraphale’s feet propelled him forward, until he was standing behind Crowley. His better judgement was screaming at him, pleading with him not to cross this line. His hands itched to feel the sharp angle of those hip bones beneath them again. It was an itch he could not resist scratching. He stood behind Crowley, a breath of distance separating his back from Aziraphale’s chest. He wrapped his hands around Crowley’s hips, heat coursing through him at the hitch in Crowley’s breath. He adjusted Crowley until he was positioned correctly. They held each other’s gaze in the mirror. Crowley’s honey eyes were dark and dilated, his lips parted. Aziraphale stood perfectly still. A statue. Statues couldn’t touch, couldn’t move in disagreement with the whims of their creators.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “There, was that so hard?” He asked, thinking to ease some of the charge from the air.

“No,” Came Crowley’s reply, “It was just an excuse to get you to put your hands on me again.”

Aziraphale smothered the breath separating them, he fit his chest, his stomach, flush against Crowley’s back. He was already hard, and he knew Crowley must have felt it pressed against his arse. Aziraphale squeezed his hips, pressed the pads of his fingers into the creases between his abdomen and thighs. Crowley broke his pose and moaned at the rush of contact. Aziraphale leaned to taste where the noise had escaped his throat, nipping and sucking the salt off the heated skin. Aziraphale let his hands roam over the lean, powerful muscles of Crowley’s thighs, up and over the taut plane of his stomach where he worked them under the vest to feel the indents between the muscles there. A hand roved over Crowley’s arse and kneaded one well-muscled cheek as the other worked its way down his stomach and to his erect cock. Crowley made a high, needy noise as Aziraphale palmed at him before turning around to press his lips insistently to Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale moaned into the kiss, parting his lips and allowing Crowley access to his mouth, letting their tongues slide wetly together. Aziraphale wound a hand into Crowley’s hair, near the roots and tugged firmly.

“Fuck, _yes!”_ Crowley cried out, and it went straight to Aziraphale’s cock.

Aziraphale backed him against the wall of mirrors, keeping one hand firmly in his hair and using the other to loop under a thigh and wrap it around his waist as they ground their hips, gasping into each other’s mouths. Crowley flipped them, and Aziraphale released his hair as he sunk to his knees, gazing up at him with lust blown pupils and taking out his cock. Aziraphale tossed his head back against the mirror with a thud as Crowley took him into his mouth. The wet heat and the slide of his tongue overwhelming. He panted and watched as Crowley took him deeper and deeper, golden eyes never leaving his as Crowley took him in all the way, the head of his cock down his throat. Crowley took one of Aziraphale’s hands and placed it at the back of his head, moaning encouragingly when Aziraphale curled his fingers and took hold of it again. Crowley bobbed his head and hollowed his cheeks, making Aziraphale moan loudly. The echo of his moans in the room knocked some sense back into him and he pulled Crowley off his cock with a whine and wet pop.

“My dear,” He panted, “As heavenly as that feels, it would be in our best interest to continue this elsewhere.”

Crowley wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Give you a lift home, then?”

______________________________

_Present day…_

Crowley drives quickly away from the pub in his Bentley, giddy when he finally gets to walk through Aziraphale’s door and into his arms. He nuzzles into his neck, breathing him in.

“What do you want tonight, darling?” Aziraphale asks into his hair. “Tell me what you need. What can I give you?” Aziraphale smatters kisses across his forehead, his cheeks.

“Rough, really rough. Make it hurt. But,” Crowley hesitates, “be nice to me while you do it.” He says the last part into Aziraphale’s neck, hiding his embarrassment.

Aziraphale pulls away to peer into his eyes. “You want a beating?” He confirms.

Crowley nods.

“And you want to be praised while I give it to you?”

Crowley nods again.

“Do you want bruises?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley gulps and nods.

Aziraphale’s demeanor shifts as he breaks their embrace.

“Get undressed and kneel at the foot of the bed.”

The tone of his voice makes Crowley shudder and he rushes to comply, eagerly stripping off his layers and kneeling, waiting. Past experience has taught him that Aziraphale will keep him waiting for a while. Crowley doesn’t mind. Makes it all more exciting, ups the anticipation. God, it’s been a shit day. Rehearsals have been ramping up and Gabriel has only gotten more demanding. Him and his choreographer, Michael are like the tag team from hell. Every day this week has been grueling. His muscles are tired and sore. His feet are marked in blisters, older ones from the beginning of the week and fresh, bloodier ones from today. He shifts uncomfortably in his kneeling position, wincing. His hip is killing him. He doesn’t have to worry about remembering to ice it later, Aziraphale will remember and do it for him, afterwards. He’s fidgeting, getting antsy. He thinks of their first time together, something that never fails to both calm and excite him.

_They barely manage to shut the door before Aziraphale pins him against it, mouth firm and insistent against his. The drive over is a haze, lost to the ether except for the burning weight of Aziraphale’s hand on the inside of his thigh. They move vaguely towards the direction of a bedroom, but end up writhing against a wall together. Crowley lets his hands wander down Aziraphale’s sturdy, strong back, down over his arse, and down to the fronts of his powerful thighs. Crowley moans brokenly and Aziraphale swallows it down. Crowley remembers seeing him as Basilio, remembers oogling the thighs under his hands, wondering how a man could be so beautiful, wondering what it would feel like to be lifted like Kitri, to have his legs wrapped around those hips. Aziraphale nips at his neck, grabs the hem of his jumper and pulls it over his head, does the same with the vest before kissing down his exposed chest. “Fuck, I’ve wanted—” Crowley pants, buries his hand in the feathery blonde curls, “Wanted you, for so long.” Aziraphale plants a hand under his arse uses it to wrap first one leg, and then the other around his waist as he hoists Crowley up and presses him into the wall. Crowley whines, and having his legs wrapped around Aziraphale is everything he could have ever imagined, it feels like fucking heaven. Aziraphale’s breath is hot in his ear. “My dear, you’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted you, the things I’ve imagined doing to you.” Crowley moans, grinds desperately against him, “Tell me,” he begs. “Later,” Aziraphale promises._

Crowley avoids fidgeting. He wants to be good, stay still for Aziraphale. His cock is hard and leaking already, the anticipation reaching a fever pitch. He’ll ask Aziraphale to fuck him on the bed tonight, slowly in some position that won’t jostle his aching hip. He remembers begging Aziraphale to fuck him against the wall that first time. _“Tell me what you want.” Aziraphale asks, rutting against him, making him delirious with sensation. “Right here,” he gasps, “Fuck me right here, just like this.” Aziraphale chuckles, sets him down. “Stay.” He commands and disappears into the bedroom. When he comes back he has a little bottle of lube. He makes short work of stripping the both of them before hoisting Crowley again and fucking him open on his fingers before giving Crowley his cock and fucking him like no one before ever has._

Crowley finally hears the shuffle of Aziraphale’s shoes as he enters the room. “Eyes forward.”

Crowley keeps his eyes straight ahead. He feels the tip of the riding crop stroke down his back, teasing. Aziraphale bends down next to him, whispers in his ear, “Darling, are you comfortable or would you like to lie on the bed?”

This position at the foot of the bed usually means Aziraphale wants to tie his hands to the bedpost while he whips or flogs him or strikes him with whatever implement it is that day. Crowley likes that but lying down sounds nice. “The bed.”

Aziraphale sits on the edge of the bed and has Crowley lie face down, with a pillow under his hips. This position is much better. Crowley keeps his hands clasped together over his head as Aziraphale strikes him. Each blow sends a jolt of pain through him and he cries out. The pain is quickly followed by a heady rush of pleasure and a nice numb feeling in his head. Aziraphale tells him things like, “Wonderful, my darling,” or “so beautiful, my love, so good for me,” and “so strong Crowley, so good and beautiful and strong.” Crowley grinds his leaking, aching cock against the pillow as he receives his beating like a benediction. Aziraphale does fuck him slowly afterwards. He opens him up with slick, clever fingers before rubbing at his entrance with his wonderful, thick cock. Crowley whines while Aziraphale fucks him slow and deep as he lays on his stomach, cock rubbing wonderfully against the pillow with each thrust.

They lie together afterwards, skin shining with sweat. Aziraphale gets up and returns with a wet cloth and a bag of ice, cleaning them both off and setting the ice on the nightstand. He massages Crowley’s hip, kneading his deft fingers gently into the sore flesh. It feels good. Aziraphale’s fingers are like a balm. He stretches it for him, pressing his leg gently this way and that, getting all the axes of the joint before placing the ice on it. Aziraphale strokes his face lovingly. Looks at him with so much love in his eyes Crowley thinks he can feel it burning into his soul. Aziraphale has one leg thrown over Crowley’s waist and Crowley massages the ankle. It’s his bad ankle, and his fingers run over knobs of scar tissue, peaks and valleys of stiff flesh. Aziraphale hums happily into his neck.

“That feels nice, dear.” Aziraphale’s voice is full of gravel. “Your hip is getting worse.” He says after a moment, turning to look at Crowley. Crowley grunts in acknowledgement.

“It started as bursitis.” Aziraphale says, staring at the ceiling with an unfamiliar emotion in his eyes.

“I had bursitis in one of my hips. Painful bugger. Hurt to land. So, I started landing with my ankle, taking the brunt of it there to keep my hip from hurting. Your ankles aren’t made to take the same amount of force as your hips.”

Crowley is silent. This is a story he hasn’t heard.

“I was overworked and desperate to please. They told me, _he_ told me, the pain was normal that I could ignore it and get on. I suppose I wasn’t in the best place emotionally either.”

Crowley tightens his hold on him, nuzzles his neck. Aziraphale pierces him with imploring eyes, “Do not hurt yourself to appease that man. Do not give him the limit of your body. He does not deserve it.”

It’s that morning that Aziraphale tells him he loves him. Crowley’s so overcome with emotion he almost doesn’t say it back. But he manages to blurt it out before their mouths tangle together and their bodies join frantically. Aziraphale straddles him, opens himself with his fingers while Crowley watches, entranced. He sinks down onto Crowley’s cock, leaning back and putting his hands on Crowley’s thighs, keeping him from thrusting up to meet him, keeping him from agitating his hip. He watches Aziraphale ride him, head thrown back in ecstasy, moans spilling from his mouth, and he thinks _I love you, I love you, I love you._

______________________________

Aziraphale keeps a close eye on Crowley, a close eye on all the dancers. Sometimes he doesn’t even teach anything, he just helps everyone stretch and work out their ailments. Crowley’s hip has only gotten worse. Aziraphale can see him favoring it. The way the pain makes his face contort sends needles straight into his heart. It’s not long after Aziraphale notices him favoring it that it happens.

Aziraphale is sitting in his office, it’s morning and most everyone is in class with Gabriel. He hears a commotion from down the hall, raised voices, one that could belong to Crowley. He gets up from his desk, goes to his door just as Crowley breezes past, bag in hand, headed to the carpark. Aziraphale follows him. His phone is buzzing in his pocket with a call from Crowley. He doesn’t answer because he’s already reached the Bentley’s passenger door. Crowley unlocks it for him, and he climbs in. There are tears in his eyes, waiting to be shed, and he’s shaking. Aziraphale pulls him into his lap, closing his arms around him protectively. The dam breaks as soon as Aziraphale has him. Aziraphale shushes him, strokes his hair and rocks him gently as he gets the worst of his tears out.

“It’s okay, darling. I’m here, I’ve got you.” He soothes, smoothing Crowley’s hair. Crowley hiccoughs and wipes at his face with the sleeve of his jumper. Aziraphale wipes his thumb through the stream of tears on Crowley’s cheeks, clearing a patch to press his lips to.

“It hurts,” Crowley whimpers. “It hurts,” Crowley sucks in a breath and hiccoughs again, “So much. So bad.”

“What happened, love? You’re alright here, you’re with me now.”

Crowley sits up, explains to Aziraphale in a watery voice. Crowley’s hip had been agitated from the start of classes this morning. He’d been missing passes and skipping jumps in favor of not trying to compensate for his hip. Gabriel had yelled at him. Crowley had done the next pass, a big one, and his hip had screamed out in pain. Crowley refused to do anything else, said he would gladly watch but he wasn’t doing any more dancing. Gabriel had yelled some more and then Michael had started in on him and then Crowley had left.

“I am so proud of you, Crowley, so very proud.” Aziraphale soothes him and rubs circles into his back as his breathing calms.

The door to the carpark opens with a bang and a figure stalks through. Crowley tenses when he recognizes the approaching figure as Gabriel. He tries to extricate himself from Aziraphale’s lap, do whatever he can to make his current position look less damning. Aziraphale holds tight. “Angel, your job,” Crowley looks at him with pleading eyes.

“I don’t care about my bloody job, Crowley. I don’t want to work with people that think this is okay.” Aziraphale glares at Gabriel with all the rage he can feel boiling in his veins, daring him to keep walking. Gabriel pauses his approach, takes in the way they’re wrapped around each other.

“Do you want to keep dancing for him?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley looks hard at Gabriel and then back at Aziraphale, a hard determination set in his glassy, watery eyes. “No,” he breathes.

Aziraphale cranks the window down, looks Gabriel in the eye and tells him before he can open his stupid mouth, “Fuck right off,” before rolling the window back up and wrapping Crowley up even tighter, pressing kiss after kiss to his forehead and tearstained cheeks. Gabriel frowns and retreats. Aziraphale watches as he goes.

______________________________

_In the end…_

Crowley and Aziraphale send their resignations to the company that day. Gabriel can’t do anything about Crowley, but he spreads rumors to anyone who’ll listen that Aziraphale took advantage of his position to sleep with Crowley, tries smearing him every way he knows how. Crowley takes the rest of the season off. He takes Aziraphale’s advice and goes to physical therapy, does stretches for his bursitis. When Gabriel starts talking to the media, Beez leaks Aziraphale’s contact information. Aziraphale gets to tell his side of his fall from grace, gets to expose Gabriel for what he is, shows everyone the pattern of abuse. Crowley backs all this up and gets to tell everyone that he was the one that came onto Aziraphale, oh and if it weren’t for Aziraphale, he might have seriously been injured.

The director of a new company, a young woman named Anathema, contacts them after the article is published. She gives them jobs teaching. She tells Crowley he has a spot as a dancer at the company whenever he’s ready, no rush. In the meantime, Crowley spends his time teaching kids’ classes and doing yoga. Aziraphale teaches and gets to try his hand at choreography.

Crowley watches as Aziraphale comes alive at work in a way he’s never seen before. Being around dancers, being around dancing had never made him so happy at Gabriel’s company. He loves choreography, and Crowley thinks he’s rather good at it. He looks so happy. He’s so beautiful when he’s happy.

Aziraphale watches as Crowley’s pain recedes. He gets to watch him chase around children and soak in a healthy dancing culture. What happened to Aziraphale will never happen to Crowley. They are together and they are happy, and there is nothing more in the world they could possibly ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> Some stories you can't get out of your head, you can't stop thinking about until you give them life. This was like that for me. A 'pas de deux' is a dance for two. The Don Quixote ballet is known for have one of the most well known "grande pas de deux's" in its final act with Basilio and Kitri. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, leave a comment here or drop by @ [halfofmysoulistrees](https://halfofmysoulistrees.tumblr.com/) if you like. Much love, darlings.


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